Traitor (Last to Leave Book 1)
Page 15
Whoever was here is long gone.
The police arrive and take a report, drawing the attention of my neighbors. By the time they leave, I feel more of a fool than I have in a long, long time. Probably some kids messing around, they said. Or maybe my boyfriend is tangled up with some nasty people and I should ditch him.
Despite the body they’d found, they didn’t believe me.
I know what I heard. What I saw. What I felt. Those things had to be real.
Didn’t they? Or am I chasing ghosts?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ford
“When was the last time you saw the victim?”
“What were you doing at seven on the night of the twenty-third?”
“Did you and the victim have a personal relationship?”
The questions begin to blur together after the second hour into the interrogation comes and goes. A stale cup of coffee sits at my elbow, untouched. Hadley and another officer share a look across from me.
I’d been in a room like this after they picked us up from the desert. Covered in blood, I’d been shuffled off to another room for a debrief. I didn’t mind. There was nothing they could do or say to make me feel worse than I already did. It was a numb sort of pain. The kind that blotted out everything else. If I’d been in my right mind, I would have been concerned about the consequences.
But at the time, I figured fuck the consequences.
“Tell us what happened,” they’d said. “From the beginning.”
Step by step, I’d recounted the night as best I could. I stumbled over the recollection of Tate’s death. My throat closed on the words, but I didn’t hold anything back.
“After the explosion, I found the medic from the Marine support unit. It was chaos and he was busy helping others with injuries. Those who had a chance of survival. It wasn’t his fault. While he was distracted, I got in his pack, took the meds. Tate and I had made a pact about what would happen in this situation.”
It had been more Tate’s idea than mine. He was a good man, a great leader, but a proud one. He never wanted to go home broken, unable to live a normal life. Tate was strong in many ways, but that wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t like Scott, couldn’t fathom the thought of being less than the warrior he’d been his whole life.
“I held him as the life bled out of him. If you want to say I killed him, then that’s fair. I’ll take whatever punishment is coming to me. I’m sure there’s documentation of his wishes. Call me a killer, call me a traitor. I did what I thought I had to do for a friend who had no other options.”
They’d grilled me long into the night and into the next day. I could barely walk by the time they cordoned me off in a cell. By then, I was grateful for a place to shower and sleep.
“Ford,” Hadley says sharply, drawing me back from the memories and the scent of blood and dirt.
“What?” I ask.
“I said you can go, but stay close. We may have more questions.”
I nod, head swimming from past to present and back again until I can barely tell the difference.
When I get to my feet, Hadley puts a hand to my arm, stopping me as the other detective leaves us alone in the room.
“I thought we were done.”
“Look, while this investigation is ongoing, I have to do my job.”
I don’t fight him. “I get it. It’s not your fault. I want you to find out what happened.” The sooner he did, the sooner everything could go back to normal. “I have to get back to the lodge, check on my family.” And Peyton, but I didn’t say it out loud. Now that Lola had been found and her story had been validated, it was no longer an option that she stay in town. It wasn’t safe. Hell, the night Tate had been killed, we’d been surrounded by some of the most elite military in the world and he still hadn’t been safe.
They’d already tried to take her life once. I won’t let them get a second chance. I’d make sure of it.
“Before you go, there’s something else.”
“Spit it out,” I growl. I didn’t have time for this shit.
“Peyton. She reported a break-in this afternoon at her place. I sent some deputies out to take her statement. She’s all right now, Ford, but she’s understandably shaken up.”
“I gotta go,” I say over my shoulder, as I push through the door. It slaps against the wall and crashes shut. I can feel Hadley’s eyes on me as I cut through the crowded onlookers.
Mercy calls. I answer with a terse, “Not right now.”
“There’s reporters camped out on the front lawn. You want me to get out the .22?”
“Only if they start hassling you. Call Hadley if they give you any problems. Offer the guests free food and booze to compensate for the inconvenience. I’ve gotta go check on Peyton, her house was broken into.” Silence answers me. “Did you hear me?” Now is not the time for Mercy’s shit. “Do I need to call Nell instead?”
“I’m not an idiot. I’ll handle things here.”
“Don’t fuck it up, Mercy,” I say, then end the call.
I’d pay for the comment later, but I didn’t care. I come around the curve to Peyton’s place seconds later, tires screaming and spitting gravel. She meets me on the porch, her arms wrapped around her waist. Her gaze pins me to the seat of her tiny ass car the way it cuts through me. The soft sweater she’s wearing bares one of her shoulders. Her golden-blonde hair tumbles down her back.
I want nothing more than to charge right up to her and take her into my arms, console her. Make it all better. I need to feel her against me, but because I need it so much, want it so much, I force myself to take measured steps across the small yard and up the steps.
“Are you hurt?” I ask first, surprised that it wasn’t the first thing I’d asked Hadley when he told me.
Her gaze is shuttered closed. Impenetrable. She’s not locked inside her house this time, but that doesn’t mean she’s letting me inside her head or heart right now, either. Guess I wasn’t the only one dealing with the fallout. Or not dealing with it.
“Are you hurt?” I repeat.
She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
Woman-speak for you should know I’m not fine.
“Let’s go inside.”
She doesn’t move. “I’m fine out here.”
“What happened?”
“Alice shut down the store today. Lola was her sister, you know? So I had lunch with Uncle Bradley. We argued. I walked home to cool off.”
“Alone?” I cut in.
She ignores me. “A little while after I got home, someone came in. Started looking around. I want to say it was someone looking for easy cash, but I don’t know anymore. The cops didn’t seem to take it seriously.”
“They should have.”
Her shoulder lifts, dismissing me. “It doesn’t matter. They’ve found the woman and that’s all that matters. Are you okay?”
“I’m all right. What did you and your uncle argue about?”
“He thinks it’s too dangerous here. That I should go home.”
The opening is easy, so I take it. Better to get it over with than drag it out. “Maybe your uncle is right.”
Her eyes widen. She wasn’t expecting me to agree with him. No doubt she was prepared to have me beg to keep her, ask her to stay, or maybe not. But I’d rather be damned to hell than put her in danger.
“What do you mean? I thought you said everything was going to be okay.” Her words are as dull as her eyes, and it cuts me deep to know I’m the reason for it after seeing them filled with such life.
I pace the porch, knowing if I don’t get the words out I won’t ever be able to say them. “That was before you nearly got yourself killed. It’s not safe for you here, and if you weren’t being so damn stubborn you’d be able to see that.”
Her back goes up and she clenches her fists by her sides. I can see the anger light her eyes and wish I wasn’t so damn stubborn myself. If I were any closer, I’d be worried she’d put that right hook to good use.
“I’m never safe anywhere,” she says, throwing her hands up in the air. “That’s what the two of you don’t seem to understand. I can’t live my life like I’m going to die. I can’t always play it safe.”
“I don’t give a damn about what I don’t understand. I thought I could keep you protected, but if the last twenty-four hours haven’t proven the opposite, then I don’t know what to tell you.” A million different scenarios race through my thoughts and all of them end with me finding her covered in blood.
“It’s not your job to be my protector. I’m with you because I want to be.” She swallows audibly and my chest goes tight. “What are you trying to say here, Ford? That you’re scared because something might happen to me? Or that you’re scared because something is happening with me.”
I turn my back to her and press my palms into the deck. She sounds so hurt and it makes me sick to my stomach. But I’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means breaking her heart. “If that’s what you want to believe, then fine. But you know I’m right. It’s insane for you to stay here.”
Her steps follow me to the railing. Her touch is hesitant at first as she reaches me, the tips of her fingers tracing along my bunched shoulders and down my arm to grab the hand I didn’t know was digging into the rail. I should push her away, but I can’t make myself do it.
“Nothing happened to me. I’m fine.”
When I don’t answer, she presses against my shoulder and I relent, turning to face her. She pauses before taking the final step to bring her body fully against mine.
Having her against me, remembering what it had been like to be afraid for her, to think I was going to lose her, causes my shoulders to cave inward and my stomach to clench.
I kiss her once, softly, then take a step back. “I can’t do this. I have to go.”
“Ford,” she calls out behind me. “Ford, wait!”
I don’t take her car in case she needs it, so I walk the couple miles back to the lodge.
She doesn’t follow me.
Covered in sweat, I push in the front door, my anger simmering beneath the surface. The reporters swarming the front yard are a furious buzz of noise and movement behind me.
“Uncle Ford,” Lexie shouts. “I thought you’d gone to jail.”
Mercy comes out from behind the counter as Lexie throws herself into my arms. “Are you okay?” she mouths over Lexie’s head.
“I’m fine,” I say to both of them.
“You don’t look fine,” Lexie says. “You look sad.”
Trust a kid to get straight to the heart of it. “I promise I’m all right, sweetheart. There’s a lot going on right now. Why don’t you go help Nell sort out the late-night crowd, okay?”
She pauses, but I give her a little nudge and she says, “Don’t go to bed without me, I have to tell you what happened with Cody!”
Lexie scampers off with Nell, who gives me a pointed glance. I turn back to Mercy. She arches a brow at me.
“What?”
“Nothing, not a thing,” she says with a smirk.
“Don’t fucking start with me.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You’ve got that look.”
Mercy follows as I duck behind the counter for something, anything, to keep me busy and take my mind off everything. “I don’t have any look.” But there’s humor in her voice and it grates on my last nerve.
“You have no idea what’s going on, Mercy.”
She snorts. “Please, like it’s some sort of mystery. I knew once I saw that girl, it would only be a matter of time before you kicked her to the curb. You’re a serial monogamist, but as soon as it gets too serious you flake out.”
“And you’re better? Why the fuck are you even here, Mercedes? Why do you keep putting Lexie through this bullshit? You talk about me getting my shit together? At least I don’t drag my daughter around the country, chasing strange cock. You want to talk shit about my life? Take a look at your own before you cast judgements. You don’t know half the shit I went through.”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Lexie says from behind me. I turn and find her holding plates and silverware, her expression stunned and tears spilling over her cheeks. “You don’t get to talk to my momma like that.”
Lexie shoves the plates at me, then yanks on her mother’s arm, and shoots me a look so full of loathing I wonder if maybe her mom taught it to her or if she came by it naturally. She tucks Mercy under her shoulder and hurries her from the room, leaving me alone with my regrets.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Peyton
I throw myself into my art so I don’t have to think about anything else.
Not the fact that Ford dumped me. Not the fact that it hurts so damn much.
Certainly not why I care about one or the other.
As the days pass, the investigation continues. I tell myself I’m not waiting to hear from Ford, but every time my phone rings with a call or text, or I hear a car out on the gravel, I’m disappointed when it’s not him.
Alice is busy arranging the funeral and dealing with the police, so there’s no telling when she’ll open Splatters back up. In the meantime, I’ve been job hunting, hoping she’ll give me a break on rent, but not wanting to ask considering the circumstances. I thought I had my life figured out when I drove into town on a mission. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
So in between job hunting and waiting for news about the investigation, I lock myself away in my spare room and bleed onto the canvas.
In art, there are no one’s expectations but my own. Well, at least until it’s out of my hands. I can create purely to please, amuse, or distract myself. I let it consume me to the point where days pass and I pay no mind. The lamps I set up in the spare room create a casino-like effect where I don’t notice the sun rising or falling. All I see is the finished product in my mind’s eye and the steps I must take to get there.
I come to, blinking blearily at my surroundings, and realize the stench that’s distracting me isn’t the noxious smell of paints, it’s me. With a grimace, I wash my brushes and store the painting for later, even though my fingers are itching to dive back in. A refreshing shower, some food, and a good glass of wine will help me clear my head of the distractions.
A trail of clothes mark my journey to the shower and pile on the tile floor at the base of the sink. Arms too sore from the constant back-and-forth of angry brushstrokes, I leave the clothes right where they lay to deal with later. The hot spray sluices over my shoulders and I moan in relief. My aching muscles never make themselves known after a long stint in front of the easel, until I manage to pull myself from the creative trance. Boy, are they screaming at me.
The paint isn’t the only thing the hot sluicing water washes away. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. But no matter how many showers I take, no matter how hard I scrub my skin clean, nothing can take away the throbbing hurt at the center of my chest.
Now that my mind isn’t preoccupied with the canvas, it’s free to wander. To worry. To obsess.
Purposefully, I uncap the shampoo and focus on spreading the solution over my hair and lathering it into suds. Over the years I’ve learned I can control my anxiety in one of three ways: art, sex, or routine.
Everything in my life revolves around keeping the memories, and the accompanying stress, at bay. When I can’t paint, and when obsessing about the order in which I conduct my life doesn’t even help, sex is my go-to.
Until Ford.
Now, I can’t think of anything but him, and I wonder if sex will ever be the same without those filthy, sweet words in my ear as I go over the edge.
As I carefully spread cream over my legs, I consider maybe men in general are more trouble than they’re worth. Granted, I don’t normally choose men like Ford. My typical type is overworked, slightly younger, and more than happy to satisfy my need for no strings.
Ford, however, didn’t fit any of that criteria.
And look where that got me.
“It’s no problem, Alice.” I hadn’t expected the call, but I was grateful. Money was already tight and I wanted to do something, anything, to help. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home? Be with your husband. I can take care of things here or we can call in Carrie.”
After a week of painting and being cooped up, I was starting to get antsy. Alice’s husband, Jim, had come along with her and he sat, hovering on the edges, his face taut with worry. The other manager, Carrie, had offered, but Alice turned her down. There were three birthday parties back-to-back today and after the funeral, Alice had called me in to help because she didn’t want to cancel on the kids.
“Can we have the canvases now?” the mother asks.
I force a smile. “Of course, let me run and get those.”
Alice follows me back to the stockroom and I glance at her over my shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” I repeat. “I know how annoying it is to get asked that all the time, believe me when my parents died, I got enough concern to last a lifetime. I want you to know I’m here if you need anything at all.”
Her eyes are red and still swollen. No amount of makeup can cover the dark shadows underneath. The smile she works up trembles a little, and her hands shake when she moves to help me grab supplies for the parties. “Now, Peyton I don’t want to get upset with you, but if one more person asks me if I’m sure that I’m okay, I may scream. We’ve got work to do, and honestly, being busy will help me more than anything else.”
I pile canvases on my arm and extend them to her. “Well then, we had better get back to work before my boss fires me.”
She gives me a thin smile. “We’d better get these to those children before they cause a riot. We’ll need twelve of those canvases now. And don’t forget the party favors, okay?”